


Graze

by Polomonkey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9175849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: Endeavour's injured on a case and Fred takes him home to patch him up. He ends up seeing something no one was meant to see.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first Endeavour fic! Written for a prompt on the [Endeavour Prompts tumblr](http://endeavourprompts.tumblr.com/post/147304755857/hey-so-someone-should-totally-write-one-about) and also fills my h/c bingo square 'self-harm'

It wasn’t a stab wound exactly, but the knife had still broken the flesh on Morse’s left thigh. Hardly more than a graze, perhaps, but Fred Thursday didn’t take chances. The second Strange had hauled Johnny Maxwell away from to the station (a nasty piece of work, Maxwell, but too dim to be a real threat – it was only a devilish stroke of chance that he’d managed to pull a switchblade on Morse in the first place), Fred had been at Morse’s side.

“It’s fine,” he said instantly and Fred gave him a stern look.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said and Morse begrudgingly turned to display the neat slash of a rip in his trousers, two inches above the knee.

Fred didn’t waste time in ripping the hole a little wider so he could see better, ignoring Morse’s soft cry of protest. The lad could afford a new pair of trousers, surely, or perhaps Win could be prevailed upon for a mending job. Either way, getting a good look at the wound was the priority right now.

It really was fine, to Fred’s surprise. Morse seemed to have such bad luck of it sometimes that Fred almost expected a severed artery. But the graze was superficial, barely more than a thin line of blood cutting halfway round the thigh.

The light of the streetlamp was dimmer than was ideal however, and Fred liked to be thorough.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said and Morse started to utter his thanks before Fred cut him off. “But we’ll stop at my house on the way so I can have a proper look at that leg.”

Morse made all the usual protests – they had to go the station, what about the paperwork, he was fine anyway, nothing a night’s rest wouldn’t cure – but Fred stood firm.

“It’s well past midnight. Maxwell can cool his heels until the morning, and I think Strange is more than up to the task of settling him in. The rest is non-negotiable and the sooner you get in the car, the sooner you can get back home.”

Morse gave in eventually, perhaps sooner than he normally would. Fred looked closer and saw the familiar signs of fatigue in the young man’s eyes, and perhaps the remnants of a fading adrenaline. It wasn’t unusual to come face to face with a weapon in the line of duty but it was never pleasant. Likely Morse would need some time to calm down before sleep that night. All the more reason for a pit stop at Fred’s to make sure he at least had a bite to eat and a cup of tea for the nerves.

There was no Joan or Sam so Fred didn’t have to worry about waking them, but he did attempt to tread lightly so as not to rouse Win. No such luck – he’d only just gotten Morse onto the living room couch when he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“We caught him,” Fred said, easing out into the hallway. “But Morse took a gash to the leg from a switchblade.”

Win instantly hastened to the door.

“Does he need to go to the hospital?”

“No, it’s just a scratch.”

Win gave him a weighty look and Fred held his hands up.

“I promise you. I brought him back here just to get it cleaned up and settled before I send him on home.”

Win sighed but she seemed to accept this as the truth.

“You go on back to bed.”

“I’m up now,” she said firmly. “Will he be wanting some supper?”

“I think a sandwich and a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss,” Fred said gratefully.

“Same for you, I suppose,” Win said, arching her eyebrow.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Fred said indignantly and Win chuckled.

“I’ll see if I feel inclined.”

She tied her dressing gown a little tighter around herself and made for the kitchen. Fred went back into the lounge, where Morse was attempting to rise.

“We woke her up,” he said, looking slightly guilty.

“She’s making you some supper,” Fred said and Morse looked even guiltier.

“There’s no need, I’m really not hungry-”

“None of that, lad, you’re here now. Speaking of, let’s have another look at that gash.”

Morse winced slightly as Fred tugged the fabric away from the cut. In the clear light of the living room, Fred could see his initial assessment was correct. Still, it was good to be sure.

“You’ve had your tetanus, I take it,” he said and Morse nodded.

“Then I think we can clean that and call it a night. _After_ supper.”

Morse looked like he wanted to argue but seemed to think better of it. He sank back into the cushions and nodded.

When Win came in with the sandwiches, she clucked sympathetically at Morse.

“Always in the wars,” she said and Morse raised an embarrassed smile in return.

“I’m sorry to put you to the trouble of all this,” he said awkwardly but Win hushed him.

“Don’t be silly. I rarely sleep soundly until Fred’s home of a night anyway. Besides, it’s rather like a midnight feast, isn’t it?”

Morse gave a more genuine smile at that and took a sandwich after only one pointed look from Fred.

Win managed to put Morse at his ease better than Fred ever could, chatting about what Joan and Sam were up to, and a funny play she’d heard on the radio that day. Fred used the time to slip off and find some iodine and a bandage, along with a cloth and a small bowl of water. Win got to her feet when Fred came back in.

“Well I’ve leave you to do the patching up, dear,” she said discreetly. “Endeavour, why don’t you stay here tonight? Sam’s room is empty and it seems silly to go home so late.”

“It’s very kind of you Mrs Thursday, but I wouldn’t impose.”

“Call me Win,” she said steadfastly. “And it’s not imposing. It makes sense. You’ve had a shock tonight, best you be around people who can keep an eye on you.”

Fred almost opened his mouth to say Win was fighting a losing battle, that not even he was planning on making Morse spend the night. To his great surprise, however, Morse nodded.

“If you’re sure,” he said, and Fred realised the young man was more exhausted than he’d thought. Win wasn’t wrong, it was better that Morse wasn’t alone tonight.

“Right then,” Fred said, before Morse could change his mind. “That settles that.”

“I’ll go and make up the bed,” Win said and left the room, closing the door with a click behind her.

“Let’s sort this scratch out and then we can all be in our beds,” Fred said, already eager at the prospect. He was glad they’d caught Maxwell but he wished the chase hadn’t taken so long. He was fair worn out.

“Trousers off,” he added, when Morse showed no sign of moving.

To his surprise, a blush rose on Morse’s cheeks.

“I can clean it myself.”

“No one said you couldn’t, lad, but you’ll be at an awkward angle. Much quicker for me to help,” Fred said, dipping the cloth in the warm water.

“No.”

Fred turned at that. He traced the expression on Morse’s face, both embarrassed and faintly belligerent.

Ah. The modesty of youth. Fred’s generation had given up on shyness around other men very early on; a war would do that to you. When it was time to undress or redress in the army, you likely had less than a minute to do so. Prudishness simply wasn’t a factor.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said bracingly. “You won’t need to take your underwear off either. Nothing to be bashful about.”

“I’m not… bashful,” Morse said mulishly. Well, his tone was mulish but his expression was not. Fred could almost swear that there was a hint of fear in his eyes.

He didn’t have time for it, whatever it was.

“The quicker we get this done, the quicker we’ll all be in bed,” he said. “No more nonsense.”

There was a long pause and then Morse’s fingers moved to his trousers. Fred busied himself with the water and bandages, not wanting to rattle him again. Morse was sensitive about unexpected things, he’d noticed that before. Nudity wasn’t such an odd thing for the lad to quail at.

He only turned back when Morse’s trousers were neatly folded on his lap, obscuring him to just above the cut.

Very bashful. Fred felt almost fond to see it. And they called his generation old fashioned!

Not wanting to make any more of a production, he set straight to cleaning the gash and applying the iodine. Morse stayed stiff and still throughout, even though Fred doubted it hurt much. Finally it was just the bandage to put on.

“You’ll have to lift your leg a bit,” he said and Morse raised it a fraction of an inch.

“No, more than that,” Fred said and gave his thigh a tug.

He didn’t mean to be rough. He only wanted to get this finished and go to sleep. But Morse gasped and the trousers slipped from his lap, exposing the tops of his thighs.

For a moment, Fred was confused. He had seen Maxwell swing for Morse, he knew that the man had only managed one swipe before Strange had disarmed him. And yet there were multiple cuts on Morse’s legs, the same neat line formations that Maxwell’s blade had left.

Except most weren’t red and new. Some had scabbed over, some were fading pink, some had turned almost white.

Fred didn’t understand. Had it been an overzealous school master? Or Morse’s own father, favouring a cruel and unusual form of punishment? Fred had seen it all in his time and worse besides, he didn’t doubt the sadism of other people, even towards children.

But they’d all be white. If they were from Morse’s youth. They’d all be healed by now.

“I don’t understand,” he said out loud, because he couldn’t think of what else to say and by God he would not pretend he hadn’t seen.

Morse was scrabbling at the trousers to cover himself again, the colour drained from his face. He couldn’t meet Fred’s eyes and it was that, somehow, that answered Fred’s unspoken question.

“You did that to yourself,” he said and it hung heavy in the air between them.

Morse had stopped scrabbling, he’d gone very still instead. He was looking down at the carpet, his hands twisted together.

“Yes,” he said after a while, and his voice was low but clear.

Fred had seen such things before, but never in peacetime. There were soldiers who’d succumbed to what they called shell-shock; you saw them in every military hospital, or even out on active duty. They’d scrape their knuckles against the wall until they bled or pinch their own arms until bruises swelled, and one young man had even grabbed a doctor’s scalpel and started gouging at his own chest. Fred didn’t understand it then. He’d been visiting a friend the day he saw the scalpel incident, a friend who’d had both legs blown off. A friend who’d died two days later from an infection, screaming in pain. Fred wanted to shake the young lad and all the others he’d ever encountered, to shout at them for hurting themselves when there were so many out there who hurt already. Wasn’t it enough that they were fighting the enemy? Did they have to fight themselves too?

He understood a little better now. After the nightmares he’d had, after the way a loud noise could still make him jump on occasion, heart pounding as he suddenly found himself transported back to a place where a loud noise tended to mean your number was up.

He’d never wanted to hurt himself. He’d always had Win to ground him, and the kids beside. But he had a passing familiarity with a certain hopelessness that came on late at night, when there seemed to be no possible answer to the despair within.

This was an answer, he supposed. The wrong answer, but an answer nonetheless.

“I suppose there’s no point in asking why?” he said, and his voice was mostly steady.

Morse shrugged, his shoulders hunched in.

“David Hume once wrote that-”

“Endeavour,” Fred interrupted. “I’m not asking Bodleian Library, I’m asking you.”

The young man almost smiled at that. Then he bit his lip and Fred waited, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m not very good at… I find it hard to cope with…”

He faltered.

“It-it feels better to _do_ something than to just… sit there. And feel. Sad.”

He looked up at Fred then, with a quick, ironic smile.

“There you go. All terribly maudlin and melodramatic. I suppose you’ll say it’s the influence of all that opera.”

He could almost pull off the dismissal, but his eyes were so terribly unhappy. It made Fred feel a tightness in his chest, like when Sam had taken a bad fall as a child, or Joan had run away in the park and he feared her lost.

Endeavour wasn’t a child. Yet there was something lost about him all the same.

Fred took a deep breath, then leaned forward.

“I don’t pretend to understand this, lad. And I want there to be an end to it, right here and now. But… it might be a bigger discussion than we’ve time for tonight.”

“We don’t need to discuss-”

“Oh yes we do,” Fred said firmly. “And we will. But for now, I think sleep would be best.”

He turned away as Endeavour wrapped the bandage around himself, not wanting to push any further.

When he looked back, Endeavour had put his trousers on again. He was still very pale and if possible he looked more exhausted than before.

But there was something new in his eyes, a glimmer of something that might have been hope. Or at least the beginnings of it.

“It’ll be alright, lad,” Fred said gruffly. “We’ll see to that.”

Endeavour nodded and allowed himself to be led up the stairs. It was only at the door of Sam’s room that he turned back.

“Thank you. Fred.”

Fred gave his arm a squeeze and then Endeavour disappeared into the darkened room.

Fred stood outside the closed door for several minutes before moving. Then he walked along the hall to undress slowly in his own room, his mind restless.

Nothing could be solved tonight. The work would begin again tomorrow.

He slipped into bed beside Win and she turned, half asleep.

“Is he settled?”

“Yes,” Fred said, reaching out for her hand.

Win squeezed it, eyes already slipping shut again.

“The poor lamb,” she murmured.

“We’ll take care of him,” Fred said, even though he knew she’d drifted off.

It was more of a promise to himself, anyway. One that he intended to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
